


a certain kind of eden

by carnival_papers



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 06:52:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4091146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carnival_papers/pseuds/carnival_papers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two encounters in the Luxembourg Gardens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a certain kind of eden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [icicaille](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icicaille/gifts).



> many thanks to [tvglow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/tvglow) for the beta

Javert, Valjean is learning, has a very strange definition of _decorum_. The man has always been odd, too rigid and too set in his ways, but, like everything else, those ways are changing. They have taken to walking through the Luxembourg Gardens and Javert has taken to holding Valjean’s hand as they do. It is strange, and Valjean occasionally worries that it might provoke scandal—two men of their ages, holding hands like lovers, between the trees? He might once have thought it a preposterous notion, that such a thing could happen to him. But in truth, when they turn to walk the twisting trail beneath limbs and branches, he hopes desperately to feel Javert’s hand in his own.

Today, Javert has not disappointed him. It is nearly sunset and the gardens are all but empty, and they have talked of the weather and Cosette and whether the English peas in the backyard plot are ripe yet. Their fingers are intertwined and Valjean is comfortable with it—more than comfortable; he is content, even happy. And when Javert looses his hand to wrap an arm around his waist, Valjean is not taken aback, but delighted.

They have often touched here at dusk, just before the gardens are closing. It is easy enough, then, to steal kisses in the dark on the way back to their house before quickly and methodically divesting each other of their various layers. They have learned one another’s bodies now, the soft and smooth places, the hard bits of muscle and bone, where lips are more appropriate than fingers and where the pressure of a fingernail can make pain bloom into pleasure. At first it was slow, awkward, to undress in front of each other. Difficult to see one’s body illuminated by candlelight, all the sagging places and scarred skin highlighted. But Valjean has kissed Javert’s fingertips and Javert has drawn his lips across Valjean’s scars, and they do not fear being bare any longer.

Valjean relaxes into Javert’s grip, finds where his shoulder fits between Javert’s arm and side, and feels Javert’s fingers spread across his ribs and stomach. He strokes softly, over the many layers of clothes, the touch penetrating deep, like a current through Valjean’s body. Odd how such a thing can both relax him and put him so on-edge. He becomes aware of his skin buzzing beneath his clothes, and Javert’s ink-and-chestnut scent, and the possibility that there are other people in the garden, in this corner that feels like theirs. Still, Valjean cannot stop himself from slipping his own hand over Javert’s, stroking Javert’s fingers gently with his thumb.

It is then he catches Javert’s look—though the light is dim, Valjean can see hunger in Javert’s eyes. It is the kind of look he used to fear, for it meant Javert was thinking of ways to devour him. Now the edge is gone, the blades dulled, and Valjean welcomes the sudden press of Javert’s lips to his neck, the gentle brush of teeth.

He lets his touch drift to Javert’s throat, finding sensitive skin beneath his cravat. Javert makes an animal noise; Valjean feels it vibrate across Javert’s skin, through his own fingers. Valjean says, “Javert,” a fleeting worry about public decency passing through his brain. This has happened before, they have touched here before, and it has always led to a hurried, laughing walk to their house, with messy kisses in alleyways when the urge was too strong, and the fire in Javert’s touch somewhat dimmed by the time the front door was unlocked.

But when Javert lifts his head this time, there is mischief in his look, and his grip on Valjean’s waist is tight. He says, “Hmm?” between kisses, his lips moving on Valjean’s skin, his tongue barely grazing the arc of Valjean’s neck.

“We ought to go home,” Valjean says. His skin goosebumps beneath his coat and—he is embarrassed to acknowledge it—there is a growing heat between his legs, a twinge like a spool of thread being wound up. Javert is close, and they have done this before, and Javert will acquiesce and then they will run down the streets and make it home and pant into each other’s chests, laughing like children all the while. That is how it works; that is what happens when _this_ happens.

Javert’s fingers slip from Valjean’s side to the front of his trousers, drifting to the buttons. “I think,” Javert says, “that is far too long to wait.” He undoes a button and Valjean finds himself gasping. Valjean’s heart pounds. There is no one here, there is never anyone here this late, not in this corner, and the trees are thick and they have even kissed here, once, though Valjean thought he might disintegrate from embarrassment.

“What are you—suggesting?” Valjean says, dumbly, knowing exactly what Javert is suggesting and cursing his body for appearing to agree to it. He finds Javert easing him backwards, Javert’s lips finally landing on his and kissing as though he is starved, and Valjean is happy to give this to him, to shudder from the brush of Javert’s tongue behind his teeth.

“I am _suggesting_ ,” Javert says, his lips still against Valjean’s, “that I put your cock in my mouth and bring you off right here.”

Valjean flushes immediately, feels his entire body go hot from the waist up. “Well!” he says, incredulous, and steadies himself against the tree trunk Javert has led him to.

Javert is still working at Valjean’s buttons and Valjean does not want to stop him. “Of course, it is only a suggestion,” Javert says. His voice is low, teasing, and if the Luxembourg Gardens are Eden then this is the forbidden fruit, sweet and delectable and too tempting to pass up.

 _God forgives, God forgives, God forgives,_ Valjean repeats in his mind, and he reaches down to undo the last button of his trousers.

That wolfish smile spreads across Javert’s face and he kisses Valjean again, gently this time, lips lingering for a moment at the corner of Valjean’s mouth. Javert glances around the tree before lowering himself to his knees. This is familiar, this sight of Javert below him. It has often unsettled Valjean—they are equals now, or he thinks of them as such—but Javert has said this is his communion, and Valjean cannot deny him his worship.

Valjean digs his fingers into the bark of the tree when he suddenly feels the wet warmth of Javert’s mouth around his cock. Javert is messy with this, a hand sliding underneath Valjean’s shirt and finding a hold on the muscle of Valjean’s stomach. It is a pleasant, steady weight, and between Javert’s large hands and the sturdy tree behind him, Valjean is able to relax, let his hips rock against Javert’s face.

The feeling wrecks him. Javert’s head bobbing between his legs, eyes closed, focused. The scent of pear and apple blossoms above them. The growing fear that someone might catch them. Valjean’s stomach knots pleasantly, his breath hitches and matches with Javert’s movement. He is half-tempted to put a hand on Javert’s shoulder, but he cannot pry his fingers from the tree.

Javert’s hands are soft, working with his mouth to stroke Valjean’s cock. Valjean feels his back arch, and breath comes harder now, escaping in sighs and gasps. Javert slows down, lifts his head away, glances up, licking his lips. He wraps a fist around Valjean’s cock and the spool in the pit of Valjean’s stomach is wound up tight.

Simultaneously, Valjean thinks, _do not waste time, think of who might see_ , and, _take as much time as you want, please, please_. He lifts a hand from the tree—it takes more strength than it should—and places it, gentle, at the back of Javert’s head. Javert’s eyes close again; Valjean knows he likes this easy pressure. Javert has often implored Valjean to press harder, dig his nails in deeper, to grab and take him. Valjean has not quite learned how to do that yet—it is still difficult to take what Javert gives him. But for Javert’s sake, he tries.

When Javert takes Valjean’s cock in his mouth again, Valjean pushes his head down, gently. The muffled noise Javert makes says _yes, again, please_ , and Valjean tangles his fingers in Javert’s hair and follows Javert’s movement. Lets his hips move, lets himself push Javert’s head over his cock, lets himself lose everything other than the tree at his back and Javert at his feet.

Valjean feels his mouth open at the touch of Javert’s fingers between his legs. Each pinpoint of pressure spreads like blood in water, opens like petals. He is warm, warm, warm, and Javert draws a fingertip from the slick head of his cock all the way down. The sensation is overwhelming; Valjean at once feels like he has been struck through with lightning and immersed into a pool of water. Javert follows his finger with his tongue and Valjean cannot stop the noise that burbles up from within him. Javert looks up at him, satisfied, and sucks at Valjean’s cock, along the sides and tip and eventually up from its base.

He grips the trunk of the tree again. It is sturdy between his shoulder blades, and he turns his head until his cheek is flat against the bark. Valjean cannot take in enough air, he cannot breathe. Javert’s name is somewhere in the back of his throat, but he cannot say it. He bites his bottom lip, shuts his eyes, hears the breeze pass through the leaves above him, and—the spool of thread unwinds, and his hips jerk, and Javert does not pull away. Valjean is thankful for the tree behind him; he is sure he would fall if not for it there. His legs quiver, muscles going slack, and Javert licks at him once more, spend on his lips.

Javert kisses his cock one last time before buttoning the front of Valjean’s trousers again. His fingers are deft, quick, and he has done up all the buttons before Valjean realizes it. Javert stands, presses his body against Valjean’s, and only then does Valjean recognize the heat of Javert’s own arousal. It occurs to him that he should reciprocate, but his palms are shaking, there is sweat running down his back, and he is suddenly aware again that they are in public. He touches at Javert’s waistline and Javert pushes his face into Valjean’s neck.

“Should I,” Valjean says. His voice does not sound like his own. It wavers with his fingers.

Javert laughs into Valjean’s skin, places his hand over Valjean’s. “I would not turn it down,” he says.

Valjean struggles for a moment with the first button of Javert’s trousers. His fingers slip, clumsy, and he tries to laugh, to relieve the new pangs of anxiety. He cannot. “We might be seen,” he says, quiet, and knows Javert will be disappointed.

But Javert only laughs again, pulls away from Valjean and smirks. “Yes, well—that did not seem to affect your enjoyment.”

He lets Javert take his hand, briefly thinks of scolding him. “At home,” Valjean says, “at home, I will.”

Javert nods, leads Valjean out of the gardens, and they slip into the night, unseen.

* * *

A few weeks later, they are in the gardens again, holding hands as usual, and Valjean is thinking of kissing Javert. They have not been here since the night Javert went to his knees before Valjean—he has teased Valjean as they passed by the gardens, Valjean’s face flushing red at the memory of the evening. But tonight Valjean has led Javert here, taking Javert’s hand as they pass a basin of clear water.

Valjean feels blessed. The touching has become easier, though it has required time to learn the way their hands fit together, how to kiss without guilt, that their bodies are capable of finding God in each other. Somehow, upon taking and being taken by Javert, Valjean has lost all his shame. Javert has trailed his lips across Valjean’s scars and held Valjean in his gentle and sure hands, and Valjean has felt fulfilled.

Now, beneath a setting sun, they turn near the tree Valjean had leaned against. Valjean lingers on it for a moment, cannot peel his eyes away from it. Some spirit seizes him, and he sighs, pulling Javert by the hand.

Javert does not move easily—he is a bit mulish, in this way—and he says “What?” as Valjean tugs him over to the tree. Valjean pushes him gently against the tree, lets his fingers drift over Javert’s cravat before planting a kiss at Javert’s jaw, just under his earlobe. “You are eager this evening,” Javert says, smiling against Valjean’s face.

“I hope you will forgive me this trespass,” Valjean says, his lips straying further down Javert’s chin.

Javert laughs. “Never,” he says, and he strokes a long finger across Valjean’s temple, over his cheek. He lifts Valjean’s head, soft, slow, and Valjean takes in Javert’s expression. He is at peace, half-smiling now, and there is sunlight in his eyes, caught as light through stained glass. Valjean reaches up, pushes back the hair fallen into Javert’s face. He feels the deep-set lines of Javert’s forehead beneath his fingers; Javert’s brow furrows suddenly. “Keep that up, and I shall have to kiss you,” he says, feigning annoyance.

“Perhaps you shall,” Valjean says. Something about the scandal of this excites Valjean. It makes him feel young, carefree. He cannot remember a time he has ever felt so carefree. Valjean’s heart pounds pleasantly in his chest, his pulse throbs in his wrists and he knows his face must be flushed red even before he makes a move.

After a fleeting glance to be sure they are alone, Valjean kisses Javert, hard and hungry. It takes Javert by surprise, his fingers suddenly digging into Valjean’s back. Valjean cannot believe he has done this, that he has acted so brazen. But Javert reciprocates, and for a moment everything is lips and tongue and touch and the feeling of Javert’s chest rising and falling beneath him.

Valjean pulls back, easy, gentle, and Javert’s mouth is gaping. “Valjean!” Javert half-gasps, his voice gratifyingly ragged. Valjean shushes him, presses close again, eases a knee between Javert’s legs. Javert shifts, his shoulders bent back against the tree, and Valjean can feel him, hard, against his thigh. There are many options, many things he would like to do to Javert here—undo his cravat and kiss the smooth skin of his neck, or touch his chest beneath the layers of waistcoat and shirt, or even to bring himself to his knees before Javert. He feels a strange mix of eagerness and hesitation; he is anxious they will be caught but he is more anxious to give Javert this. Something.

His hand shakes, but he brings it to the waistband of Javert’s trousers anyway. He untucks Javert’s shirt, Javert watching, not stopping him, mouth still hanging open. Valjean slips a finger behind Javert’s waistband and feels the warm skin of his stomach. Javert flinches, briefly, at the sudden contact, but lets Valjean touch. Then—Valjean opens his palm, places it flat at Javert’s torso. There is the bristle of hair beneath his hand, the easy flex of Javert’s muscles. He dips his hand beneath the trousers and Javert twitches again, his chest heaving.

He has done this before—taking Javert’s cock in his hand—so it is not quite new to him. But then, this will always be new to him, and he thinks he will always savor the way Javert draws in a sharp breath, how everything freezes. Valjean moves, angles his shoulder so his wrist won’t cramp, and sets himself against Javert’s body.

“Wait,” Javert says. Pleads. His hand is suddenly wrapped around Valjean’s forearm, heavy. Valjean stills.

“I thought,” Valjean starts, but then Javert is taking his hand and sucking on his fingers, leaving them wet and slick. It is an odd sensation, Javert’s tongue curling around his fingertips.

 _Hurry, hurry, hurry_ , Valjean thinks. He does not want to lose his nerve to do this, and he does not want to be caught, and he does not want to have to think about this any longer. But Javert takes his time, goes slow on each finger, and Valjean feels his hair stand on end as he does.

“Now,” Javert says, and he sighs when Valjean wraps his wet fingers around his cock. Then he strokes, makes long pulls with the pads of his fingers. At first, Valjean is careful, pausing, wondering if he is doing this correctly. He has not hesitated to do this for Javert since the very first time—tentative under the sheets in his bed—but here it seems different, and though he worries they may be seen, he eventually loses himself in the sound of Javert’s breath, the rise and fall of his chest.

Valjean almost laughs at the sheer ridiculousness of this situation. It is more than improbable, it is impossible—that he should end up behind a tree in the Luxembourg Gardens, his wrist working in Javert’s trousers, the chance that they might be seen still looming over them. The sun is setting now, and Javert is saying Valjean’s name, and though the gardens are empty, he still grows too loud. Valjean places a finger of his free hand over Javert’s lips, imploring him to hush, if only for a moment, but Javert ignores it as Valjean varies his speed.

He brushes a thumb over the head of Javert’s cock and Javert lets out a moan that Valjean is sure will get them found out. Valjean considers stopping, only briefly, before deciding that watching Javert unravel here would be far more satisfying, and he claps his hand over Javert’s mouth just as he makes another too-loud noise. It is possibly the most forceful thing Valjean has ever done, but Javert does not seem to mind it, bucking his hips and thrusting into Valjean’s palm.

His wrist starts to ache; he feels Javert’s breath hot on his skin, tongue against flesh, and it is only a moment before Javert goes still, his body like a spring stretched tight, and shudders, spending in Valjean’s hand. Valjean is inexplicably pleased at the feeling of Javert’s spend between his fingers. He draws his hand up out of Javert’s trousers and, before he can remove his handkerchief, Javert has seized him by the forearm, panting, and has returned Valjean’s fingers to his mouth.

Valjean almost feels embarrassed—this is base, this is wrong, this is scandalous—but the warmth of Javert’s mouth soothes him, as does the satisfied, hazy look in Javert’s eyes. Javert holds him close, sucks Valjean’s fingers clean. Strange—it feels as though a weight has been lifted from Valjean’s shoulders, some kind of years-old burden. He wants to thank Javert for this, oddly, because he cannot remember ever feeling so light.

Instead he slips his fingers from Javert’s mouth, holds them against Javert’s face, and kisses him, slower this time, gentle. He does not mind if they are caught.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry about this, the pwp life is not for me
> 
> title stolen from [this poem](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/242702)


End file.
